Page 18 of Kiss Me Tonight

Not the way he flings his baseball hat on the hood of his truck.

Nor the way he drags his fingers through thick, inky-black hair.

And most assuredly not the way my pulse kicks into overdrive when my eyes settle on his rugged features and my suspicions are confirmed.

Standing approximately three feet away, looking like a total, pissed-off male, is none other than Dominic DaSilva.

God help me.

5

Dominic

She knows who I am.

Inside the candlelit world of the Golden Fleece, there was no doubt in my mind that the cute, drunk blonde didn’t recognize me. We’d sat side by side with her mouthing off about how much of an asshole Dominic DaSilva was.

Is.

Shit, does it really matter? End of the day, the anonymity gave me an unexpected thrill. Like an adrenaline junkie watching the ground rise up fast, just before the release of the parachute, I’d done nothing to reveal that I was the same “asshole” clutching his leg on the TV.

Had it been uncomfortable to watch the lowest point of my life play out on screen while a bunch of strangers hollered their joy from every corner of the pub?

Yep.

Had I cared, especially once she ditched the prim and proper attitude and loosened up?

Not even a little.

There’s a special circle of hell reserved for people like you.

A visual of her calling me an asshole just like him—me. Just like me—springs to mind, only to be cast aside by the memory of her landing face-first on my dick.

Embarrassment had pinkened her cheeks and sharpened her tongue, and there’d been one heavy, electric moment when I nearly said “screw it” to my mission of staying in my own lane and away from women and dating and relationships.

Because those pink lips of hers had beckoned. Strongly.

Now, standing mere feet away from her, I’m glad for resisting the urge to lean in and discover how she likes to be kissed. Aggressive, with warring tongues and nipping teeth? Or slow and soul-wrenchingly sweet?

Doesn’t matter.

Considering how she’s gaping at me,obliviousis no longer her middle name. She knows exactly who I am.

I shouldn’t have taken off the damn hat.

Too late now.

Her jaw is hanging open and her eyes are the size of saucers.

One slender hand lifts to clutch her shirt collar—the same one I’m wearing—and an ominous feeling slicks through me.

Red-and-white London High polo.

The Wildcat mascot, paired with a football in motion, is printed over her left breast.

My gaze drifts south, over her loose shorts and the neon-pink tennis shoes on her feet. She’s decked out in workout gear. Her blond hair is tugged up into a high ponytail, the tips of which brush her right shoulder. Unlike the other night, her face is completely devoid of makeup.

Though her lips are still the same berry shade that made me think twice about turning her down.Au natural.They’re full and plump and instead of curving up in a smile like she’s excited to see me, they’re shaped in anO.

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